


it's often told december's cold (till i get home to you)

by bleuboxes



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, And By That I Mean, F/M, Romance, also clara's gran is pals with james potters mum, clara's gran is a badass, forget about canonical timelines because you wont find any here, i didnt even mean to what the hell, i sort of made clara an alcoholic????, it's a Wild Time, the au to beat all au's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleuboxes/pseuds/bleuboxes
Summary: “You’re a prat, you know that.”“Yeah, but you fancy me, so I reckon that’s your problem.” Sirius shrugs.Clara punches him in the arm before unlocking the door.





	it's often told december's cold (till i get home to you)

**Author's Note:**

> AHAHAHAHAH LOL I WROTE LIKE A 7K FIC FOR THE RAREST PAIR OUT THERE  
> I WANT TO DIEEEE  
> the worst part is i wrote this in two days so its def crap but i pUT A LOT OF WORK INTO IT AN IT WILL NOT ROT IN MY DRAFTS FOREVER 
> 
> anyway, screw timelines, canon, and everything else under the sun.  
> this is a collective 'fuck you' to such canon, to james and lily and harry and everyone else not being able to live happy lives, to the biphobes (BECAUSE CLARA IS BI, GODDAMMIT) and basically everyone who said i couldt do this.
> 
> no one told me not to write this, but i don't care.
> 
> title is from the song valentine by dallon weekes
> 
> pardon the abundant mistakes which i tried to pick out.

Clara Oswald is twenty-two years old when her grandmother’s neighbor’s son gets engaged. Clara isn’t sure how or why she gets an invitation to the wedding, but she doesn’t question it. She’s tired; Uni is kicking her ass, and she’s decided that she needs a break.

Weddings are fun, especially if she doesn’t know who it is that's getting married.

(Well, it says James Potter and Lily Evans on the invitation, but what’s in a name?)

She goes alone. She hadn’t planned on it originally, but the Doctor’s out on an intergalactic errand (which she thinks has something to do with his wife, but that’s whatever). So, she packs up, and helps her dad pack. Before she can feel the time pass, she heads off with her Gran, her Dad, and Linda, his girlfriend, to this wedding.

On the way down, her Gran tells her a little bit about the people they’re watching get married. They're a bit peculiar, she tells Clara, but kind-hearted and generous. (Apparently James’ Potter’s mother gets her Gran cackling like a woman possessed.

Once they get to the inn they're staying at, Clara sends her love and brings her things to her room. It’s in a quiet part of the country, but the country side is beautiful. Small pastures litter the landscape and worn stone walls lay erect on the serene pastures. It really is beautiful, and she thinks of how the Doctor must feel when he visits Earth – with such a fondness and appreciation for the beauty of the planet.

On a whim, she decides that she might as well take a walk. She’s not eating with her family until later, and she has no interest on doing any of her work for Uni. She quickly changes into a nice blouse and skirt combination, pulls her hair into an intricate bun on the nape of her neck, and fixes her make-up.

(Gran always says to look your best when out and about; you never know when a gentleman-caller (or a nice lady, in Clara’s case) is going to cross your path.) 

So, she begins her walk. Taking note of the scenery, she’s quick to compare it to all the other places that she’s visited. While everything is different, there’s something that she’s noticed is a common trait – every place is beautiful in its own unique way (even those weird planets where everything runs amuck, and she and the Doctor just barely manage to save the day.)

She’s so caught up in her revelry that she doesn’t notice the man walking in the opposite direction as she is until she runs straight into him; she’s not as mortified as she should be considering he’s maybe one of the handsomest blokes she’s ever seen, and he looks rather peeved with her.

“Watch it.” He says, agitated.

“Sorry.” She straightens her skirt. “Just distracted, was all. I’ll be off.”

“I could tell.” He lights up a cigarette. Clara’s starting to get worked up.

“Well, there’s no need to be a git about it.”

“You’re absolutely right, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.”

“Fine then.”

“ _Fine_.” He glowers at her. He takes a drag, and she can practically see him thinking about blowing the smoke in her face; in an act of sheer stubbornness, she positions herself in a way that screams _do it,_ but he doesn’t. Instead, he mutters something unpleasant under his breath and walks away.

She’d like to think herself the better person, but she turns back and does the exact same thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dinner with her family is much more pleasant. Her Gran, as always, is a spit fire, causing their whole table to erupt into fits of laughter every few minutes (which gather both warm and not so warm attention from the rest of the people in the restaurant.)

Clara doesn’t care. She’s gone through too much recently to not appreciate the happiness that’s part of her mundane life. It’s not often that she permits herself to be happy, but she’s with her family, ready to attend a wedding of two people that she doesn’t even know.

She’s allowed to be happy (no matter what the Universe or the other people in the room think).

She’s getting along with Linda for the first time in ages, her Dad’s the happiest she’s seen him in a long time, and well, it would have been nice if the Doctor was here with her, but she’s sure it would be a little more stressful having to explain why her plus one looks like her grandfather (plus the badgering of questions that come along with bringing him anywhere; she swears he’s like the Universe’s oldest child, sometimes).

Needless to say, after dinner, she heads back to her room slightly buzzed and with a happy feeling. (Space liqueur has really improved her tolerance, honestly; it might be the best benefit of traveling with the Doctor throughout space and time). However, as she tries to unlock her door, she can’t help but overhear a strange conversation. It’s a bit far off, so she catches quiet bits and pieces, but from what she is able to hear, she makes out the words wands, brooms, dress robes, and something about ‘Muggles’, whatever the hell that may be.

She’s torn between putting this knowledge on her mind’s back burner for another day and going out and being her normal, curious self and sticking her head into trouble.

She knows the sensible part of herself is going with the first option, but she really _really_ wants to do something other than sleep.

She takes her phone out of her pocket and decides to text the Doctor for advice; for some reason, he always responds to her within the minute, and usually with something that she wants to hear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**clara bosswald:** remember that wedding u were going to attend with me?

**doctor ???:** yes! i’m sorry i couldn’t make it.

**clara bosswald:** well somethings come up and I’m turning to you to advice on whether or not I should pursuit the strange happenings

**doctor ???:** honestly you know I’m going to say look into it.

**doctor ???:** i’m not sure why you even bother asking me anymore

**clara bosswald:** gives me an excuse to blame it on you if anything goes to hell.

**doctor ???:** that’s not very nice

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even with three glasses of wine in her system, Clara prides herself on keeping quiet as she tries to dive into her makeshift investigation. She sneaks down the hallway quiet as a church mouse. The two men don’t seem to see or hear her as she comes near.

And then she trips over a potted plant.

Maybe the wine is a _little_ inhibiting.

Much to her luck, not only do they notice her, but her toe hurts like a bitch. The two men come rushing over to her; one’s got specs and a head of hair that probably wouldn’t bend to anyone’s will. His hand rests on his arse, as if he’s about to draw a weapon or something – which is outrageous because the only menacing thing in this part of the country is a pregnant sheep- the other, well, he’s the bloke she ran into on her walk today, and he looks even less impressed now than he did then.

(Clara finds this to be a mighty feat; he looked _bloody pissed_ earlier).

They share a glance, knowing and perhaps, amused (she isn’t really sure; they’re complete strangers, after all).

“You alright, miss?” Asks the one with the specs.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, “’m fine, just trying to find my Gran’s room. She promised me an after-dinner drink.”

“That so?” asks the handsome one from earlier, smirk evident on his face. Perhaps, if Clara wasn’t under the influence she wouldn’t have said what she did next.

“Yes, actually. And I’m quite looking forward to it. If you’ve got nothing better to do, maybe you’d like to join me? Gran does love drinking with young men.”

They look skeptically at each other, then to her.

“Fine, be buzzkills. A bloke’s getting married tomorrow, and I intend to celebrate this union -with my gran – who drinks like a twenty-year old- mind you.”

She turns away, making her way back to her Gran’s room.

Obviously, her Gran was not expecting her, but Clara knows that her Gran doesn’t travel anywhere without some sort of alcohol – she’s a bit of a party animal, to be honest (which should be a bit disconcerting for an eighty-year old, but Clara’s not about to tell her to give up her lifestyle).

She’s a little bit taken aback when the person to answer her Gran’s door is the bloke with the specs. Her surprise is evident on her face when he invites her in, where she sees her Gran talking with the handsome bloke, both holding very full glasses of red wine.

“Our guest of Honor has arrived!” Specs announces dramatically.

“Oh! Boys!” her Gran shouts, “This is Clara, my granddaughter. Come here, Clara, don’t be shy.”

Clara humors her grandmother; both men look more than amused.

“Clara, Sirius here was telling me he had a run in with you earlier today.”

“Quite.” She glares, “Gran, how much is left in that bottle?”

“Oh. Not much, Dear; have the rest.”

Clara takes the bottle her grandmother has handed to her. Investigating or no, it’s still a wedding and there’s no way she’s not drinking tonight.

“Cheers.” She says, raising the bottle to her lips, taking a nice long sip.

Clara learns that Specs happens to be the infamous James Potter. He’s a snarky, a bit ridiculous and lanky, but he seems like a decent type of guy. He’s pretty good looking too, nice facial structure and his eyes, really, are something to marvel at (as her Gran loudly points out to her, earning some sort of quip from Sirius.)

Sirius Black, as it turns out, is more of an enigma. The easy way to describe him is a prick, but Clara can tell there’s more to that. He’s funny too, but in a meaner, harsher way. His voice is thick, like smoke, and where James is softer around the edges, Sirius is like diamond -brilliant and sharp. He’s handsome, but in her more not-completely-sober state, she’s able to reason why. He’s got crisp grey eyes, like something described out of her novels; his hair, while not untidy, is black and long and a little messy. His face is angular, and a few freckles linger across his nose and cheeks.

He’s quite muscular too.

Her whole evening is not spent ogling him and drinking, however.

Gran gets talking to James about how she and his mother were rather good friends growing up: Euphemia and Florence. They were apparently quite the pair.As both James and Clara’s Gran elaborate on the elderly woman’s past in shenanigans, her and Sirius are sort of left on the sidelines.

“What’re you gonna do after Uni?” he asks.

“Hopefully be an English lit teacher, but I’d really like to travel a bit before that – see the world, ya know?”

“I’m not big on traveling.”

“Oh.” She replies, unsure of what to say.

“Not that I’ve never been – my mum – dreadful woman, actually – used to take us to France for holidays when I was young.”

Clara nods, “France is quite lovely.”

“Nah, it was dreadful.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve been anywhere interesting?” he questions.

She looks down at her hands, which are neatly folded around the nearly empty bottle of wine; she’s dying to say yes – so many wonderful, wonderful places, so she bends the truth a bit.

“Yes, I’m here, aren’t I?”

He laughs, deep and honest and it brings a blush to Clara’s cheeks.

Although, it is a little strange that his laughter sounded close to a dog’s bark.

They talk for some time more, and Clara’s come to accept that Sirius Black is a prick, yes, but he also seems to be a good man.

Now, only to figure out this weird Muggle (and all those other things) business.

But that’s for another day, because she’s pretty sure she passes out on the floor of her Gran’s room in the middle of conversation with James about how they might remember each other from when they were very young (She would have been eight when he was four; apparently, they, too, caused quite the ruckus around the neighborhood).

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The wedding the next day is beautiful. Lily Evans looks radiant, James Potter throws Clara a wink as his bride walks up the isle. Clara's crying (because she’s still a bit not-completely-sober) because well, it’s apparent that the young people in front of her are very obviously and happily in love.

The reception - well, Clara doesn’t remember much of that. She knows she was seated at a table with Sirius, two other blokes whose names were Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin, Marlene McKinnon, Mary MacDonald, and Dorcas Meadows.

They all seemed to have gone to the same weird boarding school (by the name of Hogwarts, which Marlene accidentally says. They all looked mortified after; it was rather funny.) Clara wasn’t necessarily left out of conversation, but they were all reminiscing and talking about how James had tried to woo Lily in years past (all of his methods sounded fake and ridiculous. She’s sort of doubting how the two of them ended up married, to be honest). So, Clara decides to make champagne her new best friend.

She remembers fluttering around, from table to table, meeting James’s mother – who honestly seems to be her Gran’s soulmate, Lily Evans, who she gets along very well with (they exchange numbers and everything – James even seems to be a bit envious of her).

Then the dancing starts, and a lot after that is a blur.

Well, pretty much everything after that is a blur.

So, as she stares at a ceiling that is identical to the one in her room (but it’s not her room), she’s wondering how and why the hell she fell into bed with Sirius Black last night.

Not that she’s complaining – she’s fairly certain that he’s possibly the best lay she’s ever had, but it’s just sort of a shock to her.

Who is she kidding, it’s really not. She’s a known flirt, and well, is it really a wedding if she doesn’t shag someone?

He’s still sound asleep, so she gets out of bed (quietly, ignoring the terrible ache behind her eyes. She remembers this is why she doesn’t really drink that often) and searches for her clothes, which are strewn haphazardly across the room. As she pulls her dress over her head, she notices something peculiar lying on the bedside table – a stick.

Now, Clara’s raised a lady (as much as her mother could instill in her, that is) and she knows not to touch what isn’t hers, so she doesn’t. Instead, she uses the battery remaining on her phone to take a picture, recollects her thoughts on the dialog that spurred her impromptu investigation (of which sleeping with Sirius Black was not part of the plan), and searches for a pencil and a piece of paper to scribble down her number.

She’s not sure he knows what a phone is (she remembers he was super weird about that last night), but she writes it down anyway.

Worst thing that could happen is that he doesn’t call her.

She’ll probably be too busy saving the universe to answer his text or call or whatever he does, anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“How was your wedding?” The Doctor asks her as she enters the Tardis.

“Lovely, actually. Everyone there was sort of peculiar; you would have liked it.”

“And your investigation?”

“Oh, that fell through when I slept with the suspect.”

She’s sure, if he had been sipping tea or something, he would have spit it, except she’s wrong (which is why he’s in charge here), and he’s stoic as Brutus.

“So, you didn’t find anything?”

“Nope.”

He scowls, then decides to let the TARDIS pick where they’re going for a change, as if she isn’t some temperamental old hag.

(They arrive at some place where they almost get murdered by Daleks, which much better than a trip to France, if you’re asking her.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A year and a half passes.

She’s done with Uni. She’s got a job as an English Literature teacher at Coal Hill School.

Her boyfriend Danny, dies (it’s really quite tragic, and no, she’s _not_ over it), and the Doctor lies to her face (and she lies straight to his, so it’s a tit-for-tat type thing).

And now she’s planning on spending Christmas alone in her flat in London.

Everything is less than ideal, and she truly wishes that she had someone to be with.

Which is maybe why she’s texting Lily Evans-Potter at one o’clock in the morning.

Which is how Lily Evans-Potter invites her to her house (or cottage or whatever) in Grodric’s Hollow (Lily sent directions, thank god) for a Christmas get together.

Clara decides to bring some wine and her best attitude.

She's got absolutely nothing to lose.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The train ride to Godric’s Hollow takes about an hour, and when she arrives on Lily and James’ doorstep, she’s greeted by none other than Sirius Black, who she had, up until recently, forgot about.

“Happy Christmas.” She smiles, she can tell it’s more of a grimace, and her voice, which she had hoped would be full of cheerful inflection, sounds sour.

It’s that kind of year, she supposes.

“Long time no see.” He says, letting her in the door.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “It’s been a while; how’ve you been.” She attempts pleasantry; she sounds exhausted.

“Not terrible.”

“Glad to hear.”

“And you?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve been the Universe’s piss pot for the past few months, so honestly, not that great.”

They walk into the kitchen, where Clara places the wine on the cluttered table.

She’s admiring the kitchen (which is rustic; Clara wasn’t sure it was possible to fall in love with kitchens, but she’s just proved that impossibility wrong), when Lily enters carrying a small child.

“Take him, Sirius.” She deposits the baby in his arms.

“Clara!” the ginger grins, “Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas!” Clara hugs the other woman; she smells like gingerbread and something else – something that brings Clara’s mind to parts she isn’t ready to rediscover quite yet, “You look lovely.”

“As do you! I adore your dress – I’ve been so busy with Harry and work and everything in between that I haven’t had a minute to get out of the house and – wait – you’ve not met Harry yet!” she pauses, “Oi, Black – give me my child.”

“Oi, Evans, here is the spawn.”

“Potter; it’s Potter.” She rolls her eyes fondly. Sirius smiles, and Clara’s heart melts a bit.

This is ridiculous.  Her boyfriend just, well, died and here she is fawning over some dude she shagged (and investigated!) once a year and a half ago.

He's _so_ _fit_ though, so she’ll give herself a pass this time.

But she’s soon distracted, because _holy shit,_ Lily Evans hands her the prettiest baby Clara’s ever seen.

“He’s got your eyes, Lily –“

Lily smiles. Sirius snorts, like she’s said something funny. She ignores him. Continuing to marvel at Lily and James’ child, she follows both Sirius and Lily into the living room, where everyone is sitting around the tree listening to the radio.

Clara’s been off-world and back in time or forward in time (who even keeps track anymore) so much in the past year and a half, she doesn’t even pick up that there isn’t a tele in the house till a week later.

A few more people spill in, and soon Clara finds that the cozy living room is filled with most of the people that shared her table at the wedding.

It’s nice.

She still feels like an outsider and can tell that these people are obviously lying to her about a few things (like their jobs, for instance; there’s no way that they’re all cops or caretakers or whatever.) Clara doesn’t talk about her boyfriend when Marlene asks if she’d been seeing anyone. When Lily asks her about her favorite Austen novel, Clara refrains from telling her the many stories of her and Jane’s pranks and whirlwind romance. When James asks her about her Gran, she makes up a story about how they meet up everyone in a while.

Remus asks her about her class, Peter, sort of, ignores her, actually. It’s rather rude. Mary wishes her a happy Christmas and moves along, practically acting the same as Peter, but with more tact. Dorcas spends a fair amount of time with Clara, talking about her girlfriend and how they both grew up in the same town without knowing it.

Sirius is a conundrum; she can feel his gaze on her all night, but he refuses to talk to her – which is strange; it’s not like they aren’t on speaking terms.

It might be because she’s been hoarding the baby, but, children make Clara happy (and watching Harry smile and poke and prod at her has made her feel happier than anything has in several months).

There’s whispers in corridors, and the dishes get cleaned suspiciously. She hears that ‘Muggle’ word dropped into casual conversations to her left and right, but there are no sticks or brooms to be seen.

A few more hours pass before Clara’s buzzed, and that’s when she decides it’s time to give back the baby and catch the train back home. Remus takes Harry, and she says farewell to everyone.

What she’s not expecting is for Sirius to walk her out to the door, take her arm, and journey with her to the train station.

Clara Oswald’s known for being brash, even more so when there’s alcohol in her system.

“Was I not a good lay or something? I mean it was like more than a year ago, and _I swear_ I’ve gotten better since then –“

“No, you were great – it was great.” He runs a hand through his hair; she’s never seen him this nervous.

That being said, this is the third time she’s actually been graced with his presence, so that doesn’t mean much.

“You just look, I don’t know, sad?” he winces, “which I suppose human beings are allowed to be, but I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

It takes all that’s within her to not breakdown in tears on this cold, December night in front of him, but she holds it together.

“It’s been a rough year,” she lets out a shaky breath, smiling at him as he looks at her face. She notices his cheeks are flushed, probably from the cold, and he looks at her with a concern of that of an old friend – which he is obviously not, “my boyfriend died – not that long ago, so there’s that. Then about a week after that my best friend and I went separate ways, and it’s just been… it’s been _a lot_ to deal with on my own.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes. The quiet is nice – there’s the slight howling of the winter wind, the bite of the cold and the sharp pain of snowflakes hitting her face.

Nothing really comes close to winter.

But, something warm finds her hand – and it grabs and squeezes it in a comforting manner – as to say all the words that he is unable or cannot find at the moment.

This makes up for all the _I’m Sorry’s_ and the _It’ll get better’s._ In this moment, Clara’s sure she’s discovered true, honest sincerity.

They don’t exchange conversation until she arrives at the train station. The silence, she finds, means more than words, and she doubts that she’ll be able to express her gratitude.

“Oh – I almost forgot – Lily forced me to get a mobile – and I don’t have that slip of paper – so I was wondering if you’d be able to place your number in it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He hands her the phone, and she quickly types in her number and sends herself a text.

“Now I’ve got yours too.” She holds her phone up as it pings, signifying a message. Sirius lets a radiant grin grow on his face when she hands back his phone.

“Thank you for walking me.” She says, kissing him on the cheek. She blames the rosiness of her cheeks on the cold (she’s lying).

“Anytime, m’lady.”

“Oi. Shut it.” She giggles. She glances at her watch, “I’d best be off.”

“Don’t wanna miss that train.”

“No shit, Black.”

“Happy Christmas.” She says as she departs, running for the platform.

“Happy Christmas!” he yells to her.

She shakes her head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**sirius black:** yo

**sirius black:** james and lily are being ridiculous and in love

**sirius black:** clara pls

**clara oswald:** let them live

**clara oswald:** also

**clara oswald** : did you know that

**clara oswald:** the lifespan of a bee is around 122-152 days

**clara oswald:** because I was just informed of that fact.

**Clara oswald:** I hate bees

**sirius black:** that didn’t help with the love fest situation at all but I feel a bit more educated thank you, ms. Oswald

**clara oswald:** just doing my job ;-)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She texts Sirius quite frequently; so frequently in fact, that Lily finds out about it and gives her hell.

And by hell, Clara means that there’s quite frequent teasing about flirting and shagging and everything in between.

Everything’s kind of calmed down – she’s come to peace with Danny being dead, the Doctor’s back in her life (she just got back from dealing with Zygons, which seem to really want to take over earth – it’s a little disquieting).

And she’s chatting up Sirius Black; Clara’s half-way down the highway of falling in love with him.

She doesn’t think that he lives in London (she recalls a text saying how his mother instilled a hatred of the city within him), but she runs into him all the time – they’ve gone out to eat – for lunch or dinner or whatever – a few times (not in the date way, despite what her heart wishes), and he’s come over to her flat once or twice _just because_.

It’s sweet though – the only man who’s ever really had her feeling this light and happy to be around was Danny – but this is different. Sirius is not unkind, but he’s more cynical, more sarcastic. it's refreshing. Clara’s not the same was she was. The Universe dragged her through some shit, and while she was able to pull herself out of it, she isn’t who she used to be.

She _likes_ Sirius. She _likes_ that he’s a right prat sometimes. She likes his friends. She likes having someone care for her (even if it is in a platonic manner).

Although some of his antics are quite befuddling.

It’s a little strange.

It’s a lot strange, actually. He’s always on time (despite claims by Lily and James and all the rest of his mates saying he’d be late to his own funeral), and judging by how inept he is in a train station, she’s not sure how he gets to and fro.

Every now and then, she thinks about the picture of the stick, the word 'Muggle', and the weird conversations she often overhears when she’s with him and the rest of his mates.

She knows there’s something off, and well, buzzed Clara always seems to put finding out what that is off.

Good thing Clara is not intoxicated when everything changes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s a Wednesday, as it always is, when she meets with the Doctor.

She’s just come home after an exhausting day with the students; she’s got about twenty-seven missed texts from Sirius – all of which have something about how bored he is – and she runs face first into the TARDIS as she opens her front door.

“Are you bloody kidding me?” she mutters under her breath, opening the door she just walked into.

“Doctor!” she shouts, pacing her purse on the bench as she walks into the TARDIS, “You can’t just park the TARDIS in the middle of my doorway!”

“She’s got a mind of her own, Clara.”

“Yeah – and she’s out to get me.”

“Semantics.”

“ _It’s still rude_.” She scowls up at the ceiling. The machine makes a strange noise. Clara jumps, pats the railing gently, and apologizes quietly.

Then, Clara's bubbliness is regained, and she makes her way to where the Doctor is tinkering with something on the lower level.

“What’cha working on?” she peers over his shoulder.

“I’ve been picking up a weird energy around your flat, and I’m hoping that this machine will help me pinpoint where it’s coming from.”

“Nifty.” She nods, “Anything I can do?”

“I’m just about done –“

“Alrighty.”

Five minutes pass in less time than anticipated.

Clara always finds that time passes at a different rate when she’s with the Doctor – which is stupid, obviously, but then again time is something abstract and flexible, so she supposes in a weird, impossible way, she could be on to something.

“Done!” The Doctor exclaims, “Now, just let me get the TARDIS out of your doorframe… and we’ll be well on our way.”

“You’re just gonna sit on my couch and watch that tele program, aren’t you?”

“Yes Clara,” he deadpans, “That’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

She checks her phone.

“Just, I might have company, so just pretend you’re my grandad or something –“

“Your _grandad_? I don’t look that old – _how dare you_?”

“I’m not having this argument with you again.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clara’s grading papers while The Doctor sits on her couch watching re-runs of the _Great British Bakeoff_ with his ridiculous machine in hand. The TARDIS is safely parked in a closet that Clara has nothing to do with, and she’s patiently waiting for Sirius to show at the door.

There’s a knock at the door, and simultaneously, the Doctor’s machine starts going bonkers.

“Doctor!” she whisper-shouts, “Control that thing.”

“Clara –“

“ _No.”_

He sighs, and fiddles with the machine as she answers the door.

There’s Sirius, dopey grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand –

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me - romantically, that is.”

She’s about to respond with a yes – she’d love to; she’s only been waiting for this moment for quite some time when The Doctor swoops in – ridiculous contraption in hand and yells about how he’s found the energy.

Sirius rips a stick out of his pocket.

The Doctor looks confused, but now pulls out his sonic.

Clara’s feeling a plethora of emotions right now, most of them bordering annoyance, confusion, and anger.

“ _It doesn’t do wood_.”

“What the _bloody hell_ is going on here?” Shouts Sirius – stick still extended.

“This is just –“

“Her grandad!” the Doctor interrupts energetically, “Yup. That’s me! Grandad Oswald and my fancy machine.”

“You’re overselling it.” She whispers.

“Sorry.”

“I’m _right here_ you know.” Sirius glowers. Honestly, if this situation wasn’t so deranged she’s be a little hot and bothered right now.

(Plot twist, she’s still hot and bothered.)

Clara takes a deep breath.

“Can you please put the stick down and come inside?”

He obliges.

She has both him and the Doctor follow her to the couch, where they sit in silence while she makes tea. The Doctor puts on the tele to keep him interested.

(The sonic does work with the Tele – which she supposes is rather convenient; it would have been a bit awkward if he had to get up to turn on the tele.)

Clara servers Sirius, The Doctor, and herself tea, then begins to explain.

She starts off with how The Doctor _is not_ her grandfather -instead a super old alien from a distant planet. How she’s his traveling companion throughout time and space. How he’s noticed a strange energy coming from her flat lately and how he’d been investigating it because she’s been susceptible to threats before – she sort of get sidetracked and starts talking about how Danny died (because she doubts she’ll ever be over that, frankly).

And then she begins to explain how she’s been a little suspicious of him; language in bits of his conversations with his friends is foreign to her ears, how it’s strange how he’s always on time – even when he’s not close to her at all.

How the only reason she really asked him to her Gran’s hotel room those some years ago was to figure out what he was.

She can tell he’s pissed off – well beyond pissed off, to be quite honest.

But he takes a deep breath, cracks his knuckles, then explains the stick (it’s a wand), the word ‘Muggle’ (non-magical people), and everything in between (including the spiel with his mates and the magic school, Hogwarts).

It seems Clara’s found herself enamored with a wizard.

Except, when he finishes, he’s unforgiving. Still relentlessly angry, he stands up, flowers in hand, and walks out of her flat.

Clara’s heartbroken.

It’s just fate that everyone she seems to adore leaves her somehow.

She really should have expected this.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Clara keeps in contact with Lily.

Lily Evans Potter is a good friend. She’s aware that Clara wasn’t exactly who she said she was, and Clara’s aware of the same with Lily, and the two text back and forth often comparing stories. Clara often gets pictures of Harry, who’s now three years old – and rambunctious as ever.

Sometimes Sirius is featured in the pictures, and Clara doesn’t have the guts to admit that she isn’t over him.

So, she’ll reply something along the lines of “send them my love!” and call it a day.

That’s until Lily decides to host another Christmas party, threatening Clara with some sort of painful sounding Latin (what she believes to be a spell) if she doesn’t make an appearance.

So, Clara saves the date, buys a bottle of expensive space liquor and a few presents, and waits for the day to arrive with a sense of foreboding and dread.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Knocking on the door, Clara’s greeted by a smiling James Potter, who happily welcomes her into his home. Clara hasn’t seen them in quite some time, and while she’s anxious to see Sirius (who is undoubtedly going to make an appearance), it’s nice to catch up.

This time, they don’t hide the wands, the brooms, and the everything else.

This time, Clara can recount her adventures, and everyone listens closely with a sense of awe and wonderment.

This time, Sirius doesn’t pay her any attention.

And that’s absolutely fine (it really isn’t).

When she’s not entertaining everyone else, she’s entertaining little Harry, who’s zooming pat her on a toy broomstick like he was born to fly (James later informs her that Harry was, indeed, born to fly - it's all about genetics, apparently).

The night passes quickly, time feels an awful lot like it does when she’s in the TARDIS (so that must mean she’s having a good time – unless something truly awful is about to go down).

When the time comes for her to say goodnight, she does so with fondness and a sense of belonging.

These people are different from her, yes, but they’re not so different that they aren’t alike. They’re unique circumstances and experiences make them human, whether that be magical or time-slash-space traveling.

She’s grabbing her coat off the rack and heading out the door when she sees him. He’s sitting on the porch step, smoking a cigarette and she nearly trips over him.

Clara really isn’t sure what to say.

“Happy Christmas, Sirius.”

“Happy Christmas.” He takes a drag, and exhales.

It’s quiet for a moment when:

“Would you mind walking me to the station? I’ve had a bit too much to drink – and I can handle my regular liquor but, fire whisky and Aldebaran whisky don’t usually agree with me.”

“Sure.”

Clara smiles genuinely as she watches him stand up and dust the snow off his shoulders and arse.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” He replies gruffly.

They walk, shoulder bumping shoulder (or arm, Sirius is nearly a foot taller than she is) in relative quiet. Just like the last time the two of them made this journey, the wind sings through the trees. The snowflakes dance their way down to the earth, and the air bites her face and hands.  

The moon is out, big and bright, but not full, and Clara loves the way the snow on the ground glows under the lunar light. It’s almost extraterrestrial, really. She’s brought out of her revelry when they approach the station; it’s still off a way in the distance, but it’s there, nonetheless.

She’s not paying attention to where she’s walking, more in tuned with the odd displacement of the train station compared to the quaint village around her, when she slips on a patch of ice and almost falls to the ground. Luckily enough, Sirius doesn’t seem to be cross enough with her to let her fall – in fact – now that she’s up and about (after apologizing profusely, of course) he’s looking at her with a sort of fondness that’s been in hibernation all night.

“I told you I needed an escort.” She says with a coy lilt. (So, sue her; she fancies the bloke – and she’s a little drunk.)

“Damn right.” He looks like he’s about to burst into laughter. She just notices that he’s not holding the cigarette anymore; he must have dropped it sometime in the past.

“Look, Sirius – I just want to apologize for being intrusive and meddling when I really had no business being that way – it’s just, I’m curious by nature and I swear – I didn’t try to grow close to you just for the sake of investigating the magic thing –“

“Clara, It’s fine, _really_.”

“But it’s not though,” she continues, “You had just asked me out for Christ’s sake and, well, I did fancy you! I _still_ fancy you, and I threw it out the window by trying to solve a puzzle, and quite honestly, I feel like crap about it.” She inhales a crisp, cold breath of air, “I know that was some time ago, and I know that you’ve probably moved on from that stupid issue, but it’s been resting heavy on my chest, and I meant to talk to you about it all night, and well, I couldn’t because I’m pretty sure you were ignoring -harumph!”

She’s caught off guard because suddenly, Sirius Black is kissing her – his hands cupping the curve of her neck and running through her hair. His lips are chapped and warm – and taste slightly of whiskey and tobacco – but the same fact still stands – he’s one hell of a kisser.

Once Clara gets over her initial shock, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back. She’s pretty sure her breath smells terrible, so she’s not sure how he kisses her for such a long time without being utterly disgusted, but she can’t bring herself to care after a while, because _holy hell, Sirius Black is kissing her._

And it’s not a drunken one-night-stand; it’s not a little peck on the cheek after a night spent goofing off in her flat. It’s not a ‘nice to see you’ hug.

He’s kissing her like she’s the last thing on earth that he honestly, truly cares about and Clara hasn’t felt this special in a super long time.

When they break apart, she feels light. He’s smiling, and Clara doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look this beautiful. His skin is tinted red, from both the cold and whatever else, and the snowflakes in his long, black hair glisten beneath the moonlight.

“I’m not mad.” He starts, slowly, “I was, but after a while I got over it – frankly,” he chuckles, “I was a little worried you hated me – and that’s why I didn’t attempt to talk to you back there.”

“Well,” she shakes her head, “I don’t think I hate you – I might if you don’t hop on that train with me and head back to my flat, but…”

“I’ve got an even better idea, love.” He winks, and in a blink of an eye (and a rather retched vomit on Clara’s part) she finds herself (and Sirius) outside her flat.

“Now brush your teeth – your breath was awful before, and there’s no way I’m kissing you again now that you’ve vomited.”

“you’re a prat, you know that.”

“Yeah, but you fancy me, so I reckon that’s your problem.” He shrugs.

Clara punches him in the arm before unlocking the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**the ginge:** yo congratz on the sex

**the ginge:** hope it lived up to your expectation

**bosswald:** lol lily it was even better then the time I shagged him at ur wedding.

**the ginge** : HA! I knew it

**the ginge** : i told jamES YOU SHAGGED SIRIUS !!!!

**bosswald** : well, now I’ve done it twice and hopefully it’ll happen again so I’m gonna go back t ignoring you.

**bosswald:** *tO

**the ginge** : #r00d

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments are the bee's knees


End file.
